


Under Pressure

by Anendda_Rysden



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angels, Angels vs. Demons, Antichrist, Apocalypse, Biblical References, Demons, During Canon, End of the World, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Language, Miracles, Prophecy, Supernatural Elements, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 19:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19341055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anendda_Rysden/pseuds/Anendda_Rysden
Summary: With only seven days until the End, Crowley and Aziraphale bumble all over Tadfield in search of the missing Antichrist – not realizing the Prince of Darkness is already in the backseat, kicking his sensible brown hiking boots and having the time of his life. Pepper thinks they might be in danger of being molested. She’s prepared to shiv whichever of the two weirdos moves first.





	Under Pressure

**Author's Note:**

> _Good Omens_ trailers have been everywhere on TV – quirky, intriguing, utterly delightful things that they are – and I immediately swallowed the hook: _“The Antichrist and his two dads/weird uncles, a literal angel and a demon? Now **this** is gonna be fun!”_ I initially thought the story was something new, only to discover a fandom that’d been thriving for nearly thirty years. Now I find myself with hundreds of fanfics and artwork to glut myself on, and I couldn’t be more excited.
> 
> I loved the premise, I love Crowley and Aziraphale, and after spending literal hours with my brother laughing ourselves to death just thinking of these two precious idiots, I couldn’t resist the chance to play in the _Good Omens_ sandbox. The casting choices were just **_fantastic!_** So thank you to Neil Gaiman, the late Terry Pratchett, Michael Sheen, David Tennant, and everyone else who brought this world to life. I’m jumping on the bandwagon, and now thee must live with the consequences! Muahahaha!

It was a nice day. Yesterday’s spot of rain had cleared away at dawn, and the streets of London were filled with throngs of people on business. Mothers, doctors, lawyers, lorry drivers hurrying to beat the morning rush and be on their way to neighboring Sussex before traffic become a hopeless snarl of diesel fumes, blaring horns, and silent but vehement promises of murder if it would mean securing a quicker route off the M25.

Aziraphale was glad he did not drive. He could, of course, but it was a skill he rarely employed and thus was rather poor at it, much preferring to take the bus or, weather permitting, his very lovely Pashley _Britannia_ classic. It had been several weeks since he’d last taken it for a pedal, though with the coming Apocalypse and all, Aziraphale wondered if he’d ever get the chance again.

He puttered about his shop, swishing the books with a feather duster and racking his poor head for a way out of his- their- well, _the world’s_ current predicament, to be perfectly honest. To say he was rather distracted would have been an understatement, as the angel was forced to split his time between the usual tidying, the slow but steady trickle of customers, and his recurrent need to dart off into the back to consult some antique tome. Unfortunately, while his collection was indeed impressive, it did not contain anything so plainly written as _Locating the Son of Satan: A How-To Guide for the Modern Age._

Still, the angel greeted everyone that came through his door with his usual, gentle smile, asking if they needed help with something in particular, or if they were just here to browse. The End of Days was no excuse for being testy! A young man wearing a turban came in around eleven, then just as quickly scurried back out upon meeting Aziraphale himself, flicking the angel a dour glower over one shoulder. Aziraphale shrugged innocently, then moved to assist an elderly woman at the till who, for some strange reason, asked if he kept socks. She needed a birthday present for her grandson, you see, and he was very much into Batman these days.

Aziraphale, of course, kept no socks in his bookshop – and yet managed to produce a brightly colored pair while his hand was momentarily out of sight beneath the counter. Smiling, he gift-wrapped them for the woman, who cheerily continued to inform him that her daughter-in-law was expecting her first, that she was planning to make a delicious zucchini casserole, and could he please suggest anything that might be suitable for a baby shower? Oh, and do you have a cookbook section, dearie?

After the woman had been ushered out the door, a father and two small children came in looking for something by Brian Jacques. A smiling Aziraphale directed them to the rather large children’s section toward the rear of the shop, where such tales were kept alongside Beatrix Potter, Mother Goose and, lately, the wonderful septet of books by one J.K. Rowling. While Aziraphale kept many a rare and antique volume in his shop, age did not necessarily preclude value – and there’d always be room for something that brought so much joy to the world.

Listening to the muffled laughter and squeals of delight, Aziraphale felt his smile begin to fade. If Armageddon came to pass, regardless of the victor, there would be little room left for such things. He shot a worrisome look at the clock above the till. It was half past noon, and he’d still made no headway at discovering the lair of the Antichrist, Prince of this World and Lord of the Darkness. The child could be on the other side of the world, or three blocks down the avenue in that quaint little Thai restaurant for all Aziraphale would have known the difference. He put his spectacles on and went back to the scroll he’d been attempting to peruse, soft fingers holding it down the corners, as the ancient thing was really quiet intent on slithering shut.

Several Middle Eastern governments would have sent a fleet of armored vans had they known he possessed such an item, but as they say, what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. Unfortunately, it wasn’t doing Aziraphale much good at the moment. While the text mentioned Satan several times, it didn’t exactly provide any clues to the child said to be born of his unholy loins, let alone the means to locate him.

The angel’s hopeful expression deflated a little. Perhaps it was time to give divination a try. He was utter rubbish at it, and such pagan methods were frowned on by the Upstairs, who considered knowledge of the future the sole purview of the Almighty, but surely a little petty rule-breaking would not go amiss considering the impending destruction of the world! He would not be looking into the future in any case, merely peering into the here and now, and hoping to catch a glimpse of something helpful.

Aziraphale heard the thumping cacophony long before he saw it, growing steadily louder as the source hurtled down Shaftesbury Avenue at twice the legal limit. It was a wonder the vehicle didn’t leaving flaming skid-marks in its wake, for the drama if nothing else. Aziraphale exhaled a long sigh through his nose and smoothed imaginary wrinkles from his waistcoat. He hadn’t come upon any new information and Crowley was bound to bedevil him mercilessly for it – unless, of course, the demon had turned up something on his own – in which case he would only be ruthlessly taunted.

The Bentley screeched up to the curb, _Bohemian Rhapsody_ thrashing from the radio, and killed its engine. In less than ten seconds, the owner of this roving disturbance to the peace had swung himself onto the sidewalk and sauntered to the front door, jangling the little bell above the threshold. Aziraphale took a deep breath.

“Crowley.”

“Ah, there you are,” said the demon, crossing the distance to the till in just two lopping, long-legged strides. “So, any news? Found the missing Antichrist yet?”

“No, no news. Pop off now, I’m very busy!” Aziraphale answered a little too quickly.

Crowley quirked at eyebrow at him and the angel swallowed, feeling oddly self-conscious and more than a little put off his tea, which had long since grown cold at his elbow. He smoothed his waistcoat again. As a messenger of the Divine, lowly Principality though he may be, he was rather used to being ahead of everyone in regards to the Plan. This feeling of utter helplessness, while precious time petered away like sand trickling through a sieve, was not something he enjoyed at all.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “I’m just so woefully discouraged! I thought I’d have something to report, but I’ve combed every book in the shop and then some!”

“Nothing, then?”

“Nothing,” the angel answered mournfully. “You?”

“Not a bloody peep.” Crowley leaned his elbow on the counter and locked his knee, stretching his other leg into the middle of the causeway so that one burgundy, snake-skin shoe was suddenly in the way of an elderly pensioner tottering about on his walker. The old man attempted to go around, snagging the rug beneath his walker and causing himself quite a spot of difficulty. Aziraphale moved to lend a hand, opening his mouth to ask if the poor fellow needed assistance in the matter. Crowley nonchalantly leaned in the way.

“My side’s still sniffing around in America. They still haven’t figured out anything’s wrong,” the demon continued vaguely, shrugging his narrow shoulders. “I figure we got six, maybe seven days before they start suspecting something.” He craned over the counter.

“What’chu looking at, anyway?”

“Crowley- Crowley, that’s very fragile! Don’t just pull-”

Reaching over the counter, Crowley snagged the corner of the scroll and deftly swept it from Aziraphale’s fluttering grasp. Holding the priceless artifact like a tourist would a map of the London metro, Crowley unrolled it from both ends and gave it a brisk snap before holding it up to the light. Aziraphale stifled a whimper.

“Crowley, _please_. It’s over 2,000 years old!”

“Messianic Apocalypse. Ooh, that’s catchy,” Crowley read aloud, tilting his body to avoid the hand Aziraphale was anxiously extending over his shoulder. “ _And the Heavens and the Earth shall listen to His Messiah, and none therein will stray from the commandments of_ blah, blah, blah. Been a long time since I’ve seen- what is this? Aramaic? Early first century, amirite?” He peered over the tops of his sunglasses, reptilian eyes gleaming in a dusty beam of light slanting from the overhead lamps.

“Yes, Crowley. Now please, give it back before you damage it!”

“What do you expect to find in this old rubbish? A little index and a map to the Antichrist?”

“Well… yes. Something like that,” Aziraphale admitted, flushing. He made another grab for the scroll and this time Crowley let him have it, releasing the scroll so that it flew shut with a snap, shedding little flakes of parchment. Aziraphale clutched the document to his breast.

“At least I’m trying,” he continued testily. “What progress have _you_ made?”

“Zip,” Crowley answered easily, popping the last letter through his lips. “But I’ve got some associates on the lookout for anything unusual. You know, here. In the real world. Currently. _This_ moment, oh keeper of ye olde musty scroll.”

Aziraphale glared at him. “Associates,” he deadpanned.

“I’ve used them before to great effect,” said Crowley confidently.

The old pensioner was now beginning to cuss as the tassels of the rug wound ever tighter around the front of his walker. Without taking his eyes off Aziraphale, Crowley nonchalantly crossed his foot over his opposite ankle, freeing up the causeway, but also making it all the more difficult for the struggling bloke, now that the rug was no longer being pinned down. It flopped and shook against the hardwood like a boneless fish. Aziraphale opened a drawer and tucked the scroll inside.

“I do not think that an eleven-year-old child, Son of Satan though he may be, will be frequenting the liquor lounges and dens of iniquity watched by any “associates” of yours,” the angel told him tartly, coming around the till. “Oh, my good sir! Let me help you with that. No, no it’s no problem at all! Blasted rug, eh? I really should move it towards the back.”

Crowley folded his arms and chuckled, watching the exchange with absolutely no intention of helping.

“Oh, yeeeess,” he drawled, smirking down at Aziraphale as he fought to untangle the Zimmer frame. “And where would you be watching then, because I’m _suuure_ the Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Lord of Darkness and Spawn of Satan, will decide to take up choir before he smites the world into oblivion, learn a little soprano before his wee balls drop, eh?”

Aziraphale flashed him a look that would’ve sent lesser demons into the pit with their tails tucked between their legs. For his part, Crowley just smirked at him, vexing sonuva- erm, rude man that he was. The elderly gentleman scratched at one hairy ear.

“What you fellas talking about, anyway?” he rasped. “Some new movie coming out or something?”

Crowley’s lips peeled open like a zipper.

“Yes!” said Aziraphale quickly. “A new movie! That’s it. Limited series, brand new! Just came out! You should definitely pop on over to Amazon if you get the chance! Wonderful place, Amazon. You can find pretty much anything there!” He worked furiously to untangle the dusty tassels that’d, somehow, coiled around the Zimmer’s front wheel like strangler figs in a rainforest.

“Eh, I’m not too good with computers,” the pensioner shrugged.

“No? Oh, well you must have grandchildren. Perhaps they would be obliged to assist you!”

“Ooooor,” Crowley suggested slowly, “you could maybe, possibly, evolve with the times? Computers have only been around since… oh, 1970 something?” His slippery smirk coiled up at the corners. “Better hurry, though. Only got a week and some to catch up.”

“Yes, well, we can’t all be technologically adept, now can we, Crowley?” said Aziraphale shortly.

The walker popped free with a little snap of tearing fiber.

“Can’t see why not,” said Crowley. “I mean, it’s _only_ been some forty odd years...”

“Come along, sir. I’ll walk you to the door,” Aziraphale interrupted. “Did you find everything you were looking for? Bryant? Oh, that’s a wonderful copy of his work! I’ve read it thrice myself.”

Aziraphale reached the door and held it open as the elderly man hobbled over the stoop, aware that Crowley had pushed off the counter and was languidly following them to the exit, smooth and scaly as an uncoiling serpent. Honestly, he was surprised the humans just didn’t _notice_.

“Mind the stoop!” the angel continued, placing a helpful hand on the gentleman’s checkered coat. “Do you have an umbrella? Looks like it might rain again today. Oh, that’s good. Well, take of yourself and please, do come back again.”

He smiled and waved as the pensioner toddled off down the sidewalk, moving quite a bit faster now that he wasn’t snarled up. Aziraphale folded his hands together in front of his waistcoat, watching with some concern, lest the poor fellow find himself accosted by a speck of trash or a particularly wide crack in the aging sidewalk. Crowley joined him on the little porch, standing so close that the front of his suit brushed Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Ya do know he didn’t pay for that book, right?” he drawled smugly.

Aziraphale promptly elbowed the demon in his scrawny gut. It was a soft blow, but still enough to belt Crowley’s breath out in a startled little puff. “You are a terrible person,” the angel reprimanded him. “Money is not why I run this little establishment. And furthermore,” he swiveled to face the demon so that they were nearly nose to nose, casting a nervous glance up and down the crowded street.

“Furthermore, we shouldn’t discuss the Apocalypse in front of people,” he finished in a loud whisper.

“Psshh,” said Crowley. “Why not? It’s not as if they won’t know soon enough.”

“Because it will cause a panic!” Aziraphale replied as the mail truck pulled up to the curb and a middle-aged blonde heaved her substantial bulk out from behind the wheel, grabbing a packet of envelopes and assorted magazines from the bin at her side.

“Think so? Well, let’s find out, eh? Oi!” Crowley shouted at passersby, raising his voice to be heard up at the down the block. “The end is nigh, sheepeople! Armageddon is coming! The Mark of the Beast rises over Lon-”

He broke up as Aziraphale clapped both hands over his mouth, pressing him back against the doorway. “Be silent, you vile, crawling thing!” he squeaked, scowling up at the taller man. “Do you want to incite a riot?!”

There was just enough light behind Crowley’s temple to shine through his sunglasses, revealing the unholy, smirking glee in his eyes. Exasperated by Crowley's utter refusal to behave in public, let alone in matters of such cosmic importance, Aziraphale did his best to summon up his finest Angelic Glare, then felt a distracting poke in his side. He peered back over his shoulder.

“Sorry ta interrupt,” said the postal worker, though she didn’t sound very sorry at all. “But you an’ yer husband are standing in front of the slot, yeah?”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake. I’ll take them!” Aziraphale exploded, releasing Crowley to take the packet of mail she was jabbing into his ribs. The dead-eyed carrier didn’t bother to ask if he was the owner of the establishment, or some random bloke going about collecting other people’s mail. She hauled herself back into the truck and drove off, probably thinking of the various ways to commit painless suicide.

“They don’t care, ya know,” said Crowley, straightening his lapels.

“Yes, well _I_ do,” said Aziraphale as he removed the rubber-band from the mail. He flipped through the usual assortment of utility bills and Jam-of-the-Month offers from his favorite club, then stopped to read the headline on the local newspaper.

“Honestly, I could probably run four or five of them over and most people wouldn’t even blink,” Crowley continued even less helpfully. A chill breeze skittered up the street, stirring the cloud of glistening cellophane wrappers left in the gutter. Crowley reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a silver case, propping his shoulder against one of the twin columns that framed the door of the bookshop.

“That’s not true,” Aziraphale protested.

“Isn’t it? Your postie there looked like she was pretty eager to go down on Mr. Nine Mil,” said Crowley, extending a forefinger and plugging it into his mouth, angled towards the back of his head. Aziraphale flinched.

“People have hard lives,” he said, much more quietly. “It’s not for us to judge.”

Crowley blew a dismissive raspberry, but Aziraphale knew that it was mostly for show, otherwise the demon would not be standing here, as a late afternoon thunderstorm closed overhead, waiting for news on how they were supposed to put an end to the Apocalypse. His shoulders drooped. Because _that_ was going so well. As Aziraphale continued to flip through the mail, Crowley replaced his finger with a cigarette and lit it with a glut of hellfire conjured from the tip of his finger, done and gone so quickly, curious pedestrians would merely think it a lighter. Aziraphale inhaled the scent of brimstone smeared with a debaucherous drizzle of strawberry.

Reaching the magazines folded at the back of the parcel, he brushed over the usual bundle of art and culture magazines, his attention drawn to a rather seedy-looking gossip rag addressed to one _A. Z. Fell or Current Resident_. Crowley exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.

“Princess Diana was a reptilian,” he deadpanned. “She was also banging Kennedy.”

“Oh, shush,” Aziraphale chided him. The front cover featured a rather clumsy looking space-craft sitting on a spindly tripod of legs. The headline read _Aliens Sighted in Tadfield! Also: It’s been snowing here every Christmas Eve for eleven years straight! America’s HAARP project, or something more sinister?_

“Tadfield,” Crowley repeated slowly, drawing on his cigarette until the cherry bloomed with internal fire. “Now where have I heard that before?”

“Probably because you had something to do with this foolishness,” said Aziraphale. “Honestly, if you were going to terrorize the locals with your little games, I’d have thought you’d have come up with something a little more believable. That ship looks like...”

He trailed off, peering a little harder at the cover. Call him a silly old thing, but it looked like something a child might slap together in school, than carry home for adoring parents to fawn over. He ran the headline over in his head a few times, like a moth bumping against a street light, trying to press its face to the glass in order to peer at the secret fire within. Crowley's face scrunched. He lowered his cigarette, turning it around in his cupped palm.

“Ya know...” he began slowly. “The birthing hospital was right around there somewhere, wasn’t it?”

“What birthing hospital?”

“ _The_ birthing hospital, ya daft bugger.”

“The convent? Oh.” Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Oh!”

They looked down at the magazine, then back at each other.

For the past _eleven_ years.

“Get in the car,” said Crowley sharply. He flicked his cigarette off his thumb and forefinger, sending it hurtling to the curb in a fine spray of embers. Above, the sky gave a menacing growl and began to rain.

 

 

Aziraphale bit his lip to stifle a noise he was generously not going to call a yelp as the Bentley sluiced around another corner on the winding country road. He pressed back into his seat, pawing at the door in a fruitless search for something to hang onto. When that came up nil, he tried clinging to the ceiling instead.

“Crowley! For Heaven’s sake, slow down!”

“I’m not even going that fast,” the demon protested, casually turning the wheel with one hand. Despite the breakneck speed at which the countryside was hurtling past, he looked as relaxed as though they were doing a leisurely 25kph cruise through Sutton. Aziraphale slanted him a look, took a deep breath, then tried to do the same.

“Where are we going now?” he asked.

“I dunno. Around,” said Crowley vaguely.

“Around” was about all they had at this point. Going through the hospital records at Tadfield Manor, former domicile of the Chattering Order of Satanic Nuns, had been a dead end – much as Aziraphale disliked applying the term, considering pending worldly events. He reached back to dust his shoulder, craning his neck around just to be sure that greasy smear of blue paint was truly gone (he’d picked this coat up at a Parisian tailor at the turn of the last century, and he really was quite fond of it) then realized that taking his eyes off the road was A Very Bad Idea as Crowley slung the Bentley ‘round another corner. Something hot and watery curled at the back of Aziraphale’s throat.

Oh, that wasn’t good.

“There is… something peculiar to this whole area, however,” he ventured.

“Peculiar how?”

“I’m not sure. Just… peculiar,” Aziraphale replied, for that was the best word he could find. From the moment they’d driven past Oxfordshire and approached Tadfield proper, he’d felt an odd gravity to the place. Not good, not evil, just simply _there_.

“I’m astonished you don’t feel anything,” he said to Crowley.

It was also starting to feel very, very hot in the car. Aziraphale uncomfortably ran a finger around the inside of his collar, cheeks puffing as he took in little, shallow breaths.

“I don’t feel anything out of the ordinary,” said Crowley, peering at a hand-painted sign posted at the corner, then turning the Bentley down a side road. The speedometer dropped to an almost comfortable level, but now the car was swaying and bouncing as it lopped down the narrow, waffled lane. Aziraphale swallowed, alarm peaking at the backs of his wide, hazel eyes. He dug his fingers into the seam between window glass and door panel. Outside, the tidy forest of sycamore and ash struck Aziraphale as both oddly picturesque and eerily desolate, caught between a fairy tale and some half-remembered nightmare. In the far distance, moonlit fields glowed in the gaps between trees.

“Why don’t you use your headlights?” the angel asked stiffly.

“Don’t need em’,” Crowley shrugged, as if the handbook on motor safety was a mere suggestion and not a rule. He glanced sidelong at Aziraphale, then back to the road, then back to the angel. Aziraphale attempted to smile.

“This feeling… You sure it’s not a little stronger than “peculiar”?” the demon asked in a low voice.

Aziraphale shook his head, lips flattening together. “No, nothing like that. W-why do you ask?”

“’Cause ya look like you’re clamping down on a massive shit,” said Crowley. He flicked his eyes at the road, then returned them to the distressed angel, whose already pale skin had reached the exact shade and translucency of bone china.

“Good Lord, must you be so crude?”

“Yes,” said Crowley, squinting at him in the dim, dusky blue light. He took in the angel’s spreadeagled posture, the shallow puff of his cheeks and the hollow grey tinge around his eyes. Half a heartbeat later, Crowley’s eye’s bugged.

“Aw, no!” He blurted suddenly, in a tone of utter alarm. He stabbed a finger at the angel’s chest. “No, nonono. You are NOT going to toss in this car, Aziraphale! Roll the window down for Hell’s sake!”

“It’s not as if I _meant_ to get sick,” Aziraphale mumbled, a little _urk_ of discomfort rising the back of his throat. Crowley reached across the gearstick and slapped a hand to his chest, bunching the angel’s waistcoat in his fist.

“Don’t you dare!” he growled, cinders snapping between his teeth. He made as if to lean across the angel’s lap in order to reach the window lever. Aziraphale swatted at him with both hands,

“I can open the window myself, thank you very much! _Ulp_. Oh, no.”

“Aziraphale, I ssssswear- hold it in or I will throw you out on your ars-”

Something struck the Bentley’s front end with a surprisingly loud _thwack_. Crowley stamped on the brakes just as something dark and blue hurtled over the bonnet and disappeared into the darkness alongside the road. Both angel and demon sat without moving for a moment, limbs locked, faces frozen. Crowley still had his fingers bunched in Aziraphale’s coat.

“You hit someone,” the angel whimpered, his thin voice both accusatory and utterly, bloody terrified.

“Someone hit me,” Crowley corrected.

Aziraphale fumbled out of the car and hurried around the front, peering urgently into the gloom. Moonlight streamed through a gap in the trees, illuminating the pall of fog clinging to the hollows and low, damp places of the wood. Even if he’d been robbed of his Divine grace, it was not difficult to locate the poor soul crumbled facedown in the loam, limbs sprawled as awkwardly as the bent, blue bicycle tossed nearby. A soft moan drifted out of the verge, definitely feminine, and definitely in a good deal of pain.

Aziraphale hurried to the woman’s side and knelt down, hands fluttering for a moment before gently sliding beneath her arms and rolling her to a somewhat more upright position. She stifled a low whimper and clutched at her forearm, still stunned by the impact – perhaps mercifully so, Aziraphale thought with a wince. Beneath her fingers, her wrist protruded at a sickening angle.

“No broken bones,” Aziraphale breathed, every syllable shimmering with Divine command. He waved his palm over her sleeve and watched as the bones popped and jolted back into position with an audible crackle that set his teeth on edge. The woman let out a thin, keening noise of distress, fingers flexing then going limp again. She lolled her head around to focus on him – and Anathema Device, for that was the young woman’s name, couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.

Despite the stars winking in her eyes and the overall cocoon of shock befitting one who’s just been in a head-on collision with an automobile, she simply could not explain the gentle, radiant light enveloping the man’s skin. She had never seen an aura so pure, but not dazzlingly so. More like buttercream frosting and warm milk cut with honey. Anathema had also never seen an aura extend so far from its source, reaching out to either side in soft, spun ribbons. Almost like wings.

She let out a little noise of surprise, unconsciously reaching out to touch.

“She’s _looking_ at you, ya idiot,” said a deep voice.

Anathema groggily rolled her gaze towards the newcomer and saw, for the briefest of all moments, something that glowed redly in the gloom, the color of a ripe pomegranate smeared with soot, spread out like the smutted wings of a crow. She heard a sharp click, like an exasperated snap of fingers, and suddenly Anathema felt as though she were looking through a panel of greasy glass. She shook her head and blinked in attempt to draw the colors back into focus, then felt soft fingers against her wrist.

“You’re not helping, Crowley! Are you alright, my dear?”

The second voice was soft and urgent with what Anathema felt was genuine concern. She looked back at him, dizzy with confusion, and finally was able to focus on a rather plush-looking man in a buttercream jacket and waistcoat, his feathery curls glowing in the stabbing radiance of an automobile’s headlights. It was then that Anathema realized two things. The first was that her head hurt. The second was that she was missing her glasses.

“G-glasses,” she mumbled automatically, pawing at the dried leaves.

“Here you go,” said the man as he helpfully placed them on her face.

Now that things didn’t look like a Van Gogh oil painting that’d been left out in the rain, Anathema was finally able to start grasping at some semblance of reality. She clutched her glasses with unsteady fingers, her gaze roving between the pale man kneeling at her side and the darker, lankier one standing further up the hill, one arm resting on the open door of an antique Bentley. Behind his round, Lennon-like sunglasses, his expression was also dead bored.

Anathema did a double take, then cast a glance around the darkened wood just to make sure it was there and not another trick of the concussion she probably had because this tosser was actually, like the song implied, wearing sunglasses at night. Judging by his overall goth rock 'n' roll vibe, and the general look of one who experimented with drugs on the weekends, he probably thought it a _very_ fashion forward thing to be doing.

“You hit me,” Anathema accused. “With your car.”

“That’s debatable,” the dark man replied. “Funny, you not hearing my engine coming. Can’t imagine you get much traffic ‘round here.”

“You had your headlights off, Crowley,” the pale man reproached him.

The dark man – Crowley, apparently – flapped a dismissive hand.

Anathema felt a gentle tug on her elbow.

“In any case, my dear, you don’t seem none the worse for wear,” the pale man was quick to point out, helping her to her feet.

“Rather miraculous, that,” said Crowley.

There was a mocking edge to his voice, and Anathema got the feeling that some inside joke had just flown over her head, but truth was, she certainly _felt_ miraculous. Shaken and annoyed to be sure, but despite the dried leaves sticking out of her dark hair and the bone-deep tingle in one wrist, she didn’t think she was hurt. It was a good thing the duff had been so thick.

“Thank you,” she said icily.

“Of course! All’s well that ends well!” The pale man smiled warmly at her, and Anathema couldn’t help but twitch a little smile in return. He folded his hands in front of his waistcoat. “So, where do you need to get to?”

“No, no, we’re not giving her a lift,” Crowley protested.

“That’s alright,” said Anathema quickly. “The village isn’t far.”

While she was thankful she hadn’t suffered a cracked skull or a twisted leg, and appreciative that the perpetrators had cared enough to stop and check on her wellbeing, these men were still strangers, and she was sensible enough to be wary. Crowley would’ve been sketchy in broad daylight, and while the older man _seemed_ nice enough, and Anathema would be lying if she didn’t feel oddly at ease around him, that didn’t necessarily disqualify him from being a pedophile that lured little kids into a very dapper ice cream truck.

She squinted her eyes in an attempt to peer at his aura. It _was_ there, she reckoned, detecting the faintest ivory glow next to his skin. Nothing like the corona of radiance that’d surrounded- that she’d _thought_ had surrounded him earlier. She slanted a look at Crowley, hoping to have better luck with him, and felt a tiny prick at the corner of her eye, like a stray eyelash. She immediately looked away again, blinking furiously as dirt from her hair dusted her cheeks.

“Are you sure?” the pale man pressed. “It’s no trouble at all!”

“Out of the question,” said Crowley peevishly. “There isn’t even a place to put the bike!”

“Except for the bike rack.”

“Wot bike ra- _Aziraphale!_ What have I told you about messing with my car?!”

Eyebrows hoisting towards her hairline, Anathema slowly began backing away. She wondered how long they’d been married. She’d wager it’d been a good long time. Stooping, she started to gather her scattered things from the surrounding duff. After a moment’s hesitance, Aziraphale quickly picked up her bike, which, Anathema noticed with a sinking heart, seemed to be sporting a badly crumpled front wheel-

“Oh, look. You missed one!” said Aziraphale brightly, pointing behind her.

Distracted, Anathema turned to look where he was gesturing and found her sextant near a clump of grass. She bent to retrieve it and heard a small, creaking _pop_. She swiveled quickly, but the sound, whatever it’d been, disappeared into the pleasant _tic-tic-tic_ of the bicycle chain as Aziraphale pushed it over. The wheel was undamaged. In fact, the entire rig seemed almost unnaturally… clean.

“Amazingly resilient, these old machines,” said Aziraphale. “I have one just like it myself.”

Anathema stared at the bike. Stared at it very, very hard. She’d been so sure-

Aziraphale gestured to the basket. “Everything accounted for?”

“Um… yeah?”

“And you’re _sure_ we can’t be of further help?”

“I’ll be fine,” said Anathema. “Az- Azira…?”

“Aziraphale, yes. Bit of a mouthful these days, I know.”

Anathema looked him at for a long moment. “Your parents were very religious, weren’t they?” She commented without thinking, empathetic to the feeling.

Crowley barked a laugh. “You have noooo idea,” he chuckled, leaning over the Bentley’s door.

Aziraphale made a face.

“Ah, well… you see,” he started to say, and then apparently thought better of it, giving Anathema an adorably lame sort of shrug. The chill air was heavy with the same weird, shivering weight that exemplified her entire encounter with these two. Anathema decided she would be glad to get away from them.

“Well… good night,” she said.

“Good night, my dear.”

He was still smiling when Anathema mounted her bike and pedaled off down the lane. It felt different, somehow; heavier, stiffer, the pedals offering resistance where none had been before. She flexed the brakes with her fingers, then brushed it aside, assuming that the accident had taken _some_ kind of toll on her body, including but not limited to a flowering of fresh purple bruises she expected to find beneath her clothes. She’d been lucky… and yet something…

She shook her head, and brushed that aside, too.

Things would make more sense after she’d gotten a cup of tea.

The young woman was nearly out of sight, though not necessarily out of earshot, when Crowley began humming a _very_ recognizable tune that conjured images of a troublemaking hag and a dusty Kansas farmhouse.

“Crowley!”

The demon grinned back unapologetically. “What? Haven’t seen one of her lot in years.”

Technically, there’d been plenty “her lot” since the 1950s: candle stores, esoteric bookshops and astrology catalogs, private little covens that met on weeknights then went right on back to school football matches and Tupperware parties the next morning. What Crowley meant was that it had been years since either of them had encountered one with any _real_ power to speak of.

Aziraphale tugged on the hem of his waistcoat. The forest around them was growing even dimmer, and each breath filled his lungs with cool, ripe darkness. Aziraphale exhaled a cloud of not-quite mist. Where the rest of England was turning towards the bitterness of autumn, summer lingered here.

“Come on, angel,” said Crowley impatiently.

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale reluctantly made his way back to the Bentley and climbed inside. Crowley leaned across him and rolled the window down while making full eye contact. Aziraphale shifted in his seat, abashed.

“Couldn’t you just… drive a little slower?” he asked plaintively.

Crowley snorted and put the car in third. They rolled off down the lane at a leisurely 48kph, heading in the same direction as the bicycling witch. After a few minutes, they emerged from the woods and into a small, quintessentially English hamlet, headlights wandering over tidy brick houses with shingled roofs and perfectly _imperfect_ gardens overflowing with brier roses and gardenia. Aziraphale sighed and settled more comfortably, turning his face into the gentle breeze. This was a place he could see himself liking. And still, that odd sensation of power remained in the air. Aziraphale shivered, fingers lightly massaging at his temples.

“I think we should continue our search here,” he said simply.

“For what?” Crowley groused.

“I don’t know. I just… I feel something.”

“I still don’t,” said Crowley, tapping his palm on the gearstick as the Bentley stopped at an intersection. He waved his other hand in the general direction of the town. “You think the Antichrist is just gonna, what, come waltzing down the street?”

“Got a better idea?” Aziraphale countered. “Or one. Single. Better. Idea?”

Crowley rolled his head over to glare at him and Aziraphale returned the look with an expression that, on anyone else, might have passed for smug.

“And?” Crowley prompted, when the silence began to stretch. He gestured through the windscreen at the sleepy little hamlet. “Can’t imagine there’s anything that passes for a motel in this place. I haven’t even seen another car – or a living person, for that matter! I doubt anybody even lives here full time. Probably just a retirement community for rich jagoffs outta London-”

“…Crowley.”

“I suppose we could just park.” The demon’s lips curved, full of wicked mischief. “Think about it. You and me… just _parked_ somewhere. Little overlook, lots of moonlight. Nobody ‘round for miles. Went outta fashion with the kids, but maybe it’s time for a comeback-”

“Crowley.”

“Oooor we could just leave this place. Go on a cruise, visit Alpha Centauri. I hear it’s lovely this time of year. Let them squabble over whatever’s left of this miserable place-”

Aziraphale put a gentle hand on the demon’s arm. “Crowley!”

“Whaat?!”

Aziraphale pointed into the neighboring yard. At the end of the drive was a Tudor-style cottage with honey-yellow walls and a terracotta roof, surrounded by a tumble of hedge roses, both red and white, and an abundance of English ivy. The plaque above the door proclaimed the establishment as the _Flour Garden Bakery_ , but Crowley knew that Aziraphale was referring to the much smaller, hand-lettered sign inside the front window.

_**Upstairs Room for Rent.** _

Aziraphale smiled his little smile. “God works in mysterious ways,” he said meaningfully.

Crowley let out a long, low, wholly disgusted sort of groan.

It was full dark but not very late, around a quarter past seven, when they parked the Bentley halfway up the drive and made their way to the door, pebbled gravel crunching underfoot. Aziraphale rang the bell and adjusted his bowtie, while Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets and slouched, very sullenly, behind the angel’s shoulder. All around, the garden was filled with cricket song.

There was a rustle of movement behind the door and a little old woman appeared on the stoop, adjusting a knitted pink cardigan around her shoulders. “Yes?” she said, a little suspiciously. The scent of cocoa and lemon custard wafted out of the bakery along with the muffled strains of _My Hero_ on the telly.

Aziraphale smiled. “Hello, madam!” he said cheerily, unaware of the demonic eye-roll occurring just behind him. “Sorry to pop in on you at such a late hour, but you see, my friend and I were just passing through this _lovely_ little town, and happened to see the sign you have in the front window. I must inquire, is the room still for rent?”

The old lady blinked. Once. Very slowly. Aziraphale had a tendency to inspire that reaction. His earnest, affable nature was so outgoing and so open that it took society completely off guard, because people just weren’t that _nice_ , and if they _were_ being that nice, it was because they were definitely, probably, up to something.

“I- well, yes. I suppose,” she said, opening the door a bit wider. “You have cash? Can’t take plastic – reader’s been down for weeks now. And I assume either you or…” she eyed Crowley speculatively, “your friend can show some type of ID?”

“Of course!”

Aziraphale’s hand went to his waistcoat and patted. His face fell. He moved his hand to his other pocket. “I… well, I did have my pocketbook yesterday evening. Bought a spot of ice cream at this _darling_ little place in Soho…” His patting became a little more flustered. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid I might… possibly have…”

“Oh, for the love of-” said Crowley, putting his fingers into the back pocket of his jeans – a pocket which, until he’d reached inside it, had been completely empty. “Pocketbook,” he continued with a snort. “I mean, really? _Pocketbook._ What do you think this is, 1800?”

He withdrew an off-white, leather billfold and slapped it to Aziraphale’s chest with a long-suffering sigh. The angel gave him a hopelessly fond look. “Oh. Thank you, Crowley,” he said, turning back to the woman with a renewed smile. “So, how many pounds will you be asking, then? Here’s my driving license. I think you’ll find it’s in good standing.”

She glanced at it with beady blue eyes, then back at Aziraphale, then over to Crowley, who had turned away to study the yard and surrounding houses.

“79 pounds for the night, Mr… Fell,” she said stiffly. “…Unless you plan to stay on longer?” It was clear that she couldn’t decide on how she wanted him to answer, but she’d run out of things to nitpick.

“A few days, at the very least. Maybe even as long as a week,” Aziraphale confirmed.

“Won’t be any point after that,” said Crowley.

“200, then. For today and tomorrow. If you… gentlemen decide on longer, you let me know.”

Aziraphale counted out the appropriate number of bank notes and she folded them in half around his driving license. “I have to make a copy of this. For my records,” she said, in the same rigid tone as before.

“Of course, madam. Take as long as you need,” said Aziraphale.

The old lady closed the door with a snap and retreated into the bakery. Aziraphale waited awkwardly for a moment, perched on the mat like a slightly confused dormouse. There was a familiar, crackling sputter – not unlike those fiendish little candles that refuse to go out once lit, to the confusion of birthday boys and girls everywhere.

“Bit rich, ain’t it?” said Crowley, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “200 quid for a dump like this?”

“It is not a dump, Crowley,” said Aziraphale defensively. “I think it’s quite charming.”

“You would,” said Crowley.

Far in the distance, a dog began barking. Other than that, however, Tadfield was almost completely silent. No swishing traffic. No loud conversations. It was quite a different atmosphere than either of them was used to in London. Aziraphale tilted his head back to peer at the heavens. There was no smog or light pollution, nor even a stray cloud; perfect for lying back on the grass and looking for shooting stars.

“This place is very much loved,” he commented in a soft voice.

“If you say so,” said Crowley grumpily.

The old woman came back to the door. She handed Aziraphale back his license, along with a paper receipt and a small bronze key. “Loft’s at the top of those stairs,” she said tartly, indicating a narrow staircase just off the driveway. “I expect you to keep it tidy, and no noise after 8pm.”

She glared at Crowley. “There will be absolutely no smoking in the room,” she added coolly.

Crowley flicked ash onto the lawn. “Oh, of course. Wouldn’t dream of it. But this is the yard,” he pointed out smugly, putting the cigarette to his lips and drawing on it, very deeply and very, very deliberately. The old woman’s eye twitched.

“We won’t be any trouble,” said Aziraphale quickly. “And your name is…?”

“Gladys,” said Gladys. “But you will call me Ms. Downing.”

“Of course, Ms. Downing. And we _truly_ appreciate the accommodations, don’t we, Crowley?”

“Accommodations. Yes,” drawled Crowley.

Gladys looked as though she wanted to say something. Her mouth opened, then closed again with a click. “Have a good night,” she said finally, in a tone that suggested she was merely following social formality and not actually wishing them a good night. “I open the bakery at 6am sharp every day except for Sundays, so I’ll hear no complaints about the noise.”

“We won’t complain,” Aziraphale promised.

And with that, Gladys shut the door on his nose. Aziraphale held up the little key.

“Let’s get on, then,” he said, moving off towards the stairs. He went up first, Crowley trailing behind. The demon took one last drag on his cigarette, then snubbed it out on the painted banister, leaving an ashen smear, and flicked the dog-end into the bed of roses.

“Crowley, you go get that at once!” Aziraphale ordered, aghast. “And look what you’ve done to the banister! Couldn’t you have just waited one darn minute and put it out in a proper ashtray… or- or a mug at the very least!”

Crowley stared at him, his expression twisting with suppressed laughter. “Just say it, Aziraphale. Your tongue won’t burst into flame, I promise. Come on now, say it with me-”

And he recited slowly, as though he were teaching a small child to read:

“-Crowley, couldn’t you have waited just one more _fucking_ minute?” He grinned broadly at the angel. “There, now. It’s not so hard. Try sounding it out: f-uck-ing. Fucking. Ya do know what a fuck is, right?”

“Yes, I know what a fu- fornication is!” said Aziraphale hotly, his ears turning a delightful shade of pink. He fumbled to put the key in the lock. “You are utterly reprehensible!”

Crowley chuckled and stuck out a forked tongue. Aziraphale got the door open and went inside, completely forgetting about the act of littering. Whether or not that had been Crowley’s plan would forever remain a mystery.

The loft was tidy and cozy. Aziraphale’s thoughts, not Crowley’s. In any case, the floor and steeply angled walls – which were also most of the ceiling, since the loft sat directly under the roof – were built of warm grey wood, of the sort that had been worn to groves from decades of heavy use. There were two twin beds with a nightstand and a lamp between them, both neatly made with clean flannel sheets, and a small kitchenette. Moonlight streamed through a narrow, glass-paneled door at the far end of the space, revealing a tiny balcony that overlooked the rear of the house. Aziraphale looked around with a smile.

“Cozy,” he remarked, in accordance with the prophecy.

Crowley grunted and went to snoop around the bathroom. There was a fluffy pink cover on the toilet seat. Suddenly it was all too much. The walls were closing in, time was running out, and Aziraphale was complimenting the curtains.

“Aw, ya know… not really my style,” the demon remarked to the antique claw-footed bathtub. “Kind of claustrophobic, really. We could find something better, I’m sure. Let’s go and see the universe. I could show you the nebula I helped make.”

He looked at the angel with barely disguised hopefulness and Aziraphale finally experienced what was commonly known as a lightbulb moment. He swiveled to face Crowley, the loft key dangling from one hand. “You want to run away,” he said quietly.

“Well what the bloody Heaven did’cha think I meant?” Crowley exploded.

“Crowley, we can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s still time. The End isn’t for another seven days, and we-”

“We wot, Aziraphale? Hmm?” Crowley growled, pacing the floor like a caged animal. “We find the Antichrist and then what? Give him a stern talking-to? Hello, Son of Satan. Not to be a bother, but could you please just reconsider turning the entire planet into a bloody warzone? Boiling seas really aren’t good for the fishes, ya know?”

“We’ll… we’ll think of something!” said Aziraphale, unflappably.

“We’ll think of something. That’s your plan, then. We’ll think of something?”

“Yes! Stopping the Apocalypse was _your_ idea, remember?”

Crowley threw up his hands. He stalked around the room, shoe-heels thumping the floor with more force than strictly necessary. Yes, he’d entertained some notion of putting a stop to the Apocalypse, and yes, he’d definitely communicated that notion to the angel, but-

-but that had been before they’d wasted years (literal years!) nurturing the wrong little wanker, before the dull, homey little town in the middle of Bumblefuck Nowhere and the comfy little bungalow on Bumblefuck Lane, where they were apparently going to spend their last days on Earth doing-

-doing what, exactly?!

Crowley raked both hands through his flaming copper hair with an audible noise of frustration. Aziraphale’s face softened, upset by the sight of the demon trashing about with such obvious indecision. He took a tentative step forward, desperate to put it right somehow, but unsure on how exactly to go about it.

“Crowley… I know you’re afraid-”

“Afraid?” Crowley spat, suddenly hostile. “I’m not _afraid_ , angel.”

Aziraphale crept a little closer. “Maybe so,” he continued, “but… you know I’ve been thinking about what you said in the park all those years ago… about working together… about no more old bookshops, no more fascinating little restaurants…”

“I’m surprised you remember all that,” Crowley muttered.

“And we _did_ work together… and I- I know nothing came of it-”

“I had to wear _high heels_. Do you have any idea how uncomfortable those things are?”

Aziraphale smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He fidgeted with the key. “Not half as bad as rubber galoshes,” he mumbled, trying not to let Crowley’s bout of despair infect him, too. Their best efforts had all been a waste of time, and it was dreadfully disheartening. The Antichrist would be what he was, and that was that.

Crowley pulled his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes. “So why aren’t you blathering on about the Great, stinking, pustulent Plan, then?” he asked in a low voice. “Would’ve thought you’d be going on an’ on about how it’s “Heaven’s Will” and all that rubbish.”

Aziraphale swallowed the lump in his throat. He’d tried to be excited for the End. He really had! After all, it was when Heaven would finally triumph over Hell, but Gabriel and Sandalphon’s visit to his shop had upset him in ways he hadn’t expected. Archangels both – so bright and brilliant, their very presence was like looking into the sun. He should have admired them. Respected them.

And yet, all he could think about was how uncomfortable they’d made him feel, how flippant they’d been about smiting, about taking human life. They just didn’t understand! They knew nothing of humanity; their bumbling, painful attempts at blending were proof enough of that. And Aziraphale had not forgotten that night when Gabriel had informed him of the birth of Antichrist. The Archangel’s eyes had been so cold. So utterly, terribly cold, like chips of violet glass.

Gross matter he’d called it. Debauchery. Evil.

But- but sushi was wonderful!

Hot toddies and Boston-crème pie and lovers kissing in the park were wonderful. He wanted to go on enjoying them, watch the wheel of years turn and society progress. If Gabriel could look down on those things with such blatant disgust, Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder what the Archangel would do to the “evil” in his bookshop, the very thing he wanted to keep most of all.

Crowley glanced down. “I think _you’re_ the one who’s afraid,” he said quietly.

Aziraphale knotted his hands together in an attempt to stop their trembling. “You’re right,” he breathed, looking down at himself. “I _am_ afraid. Afraid that… when it all comes down to it… we won’t be able to stop it and Crowley… I simply can’t bear the thought!”

His voice cracked. Tears brimmed in his eyes. He peeked back up at Crowley, and found the demon looking at him softly. It was a familiar expression, rather how he’d looked millennia ago as they’d stood over the Eastern Gate, on the first occasion Aziraphale had rebelled. Well, not exactly _rebelled_ , per se… but he couldn’t very well imagine the Almighty had been altogether pleased with him handing out a Divine artifact to the very pair currently being exiled for disobedience. The Serpent had teased, he _always_ teased, but never judged. In fact, he’d seemed… amused.

Mutual understanding passed between them, as it had so many times in the past, and after a long moment, Crowley put a hand in his pocket and fished the Bentley’s key up by its fob. “I’m gonna drive around a bit, see if I can’t spot anything unusual,” he said.

Aziraphale’s shoulders wilted with relief. “And I’m going to attempt a bit of scrying!”

Crowley clicked his tongue. “Naughty boy,” he observed approvingly, and he smiled.

The angel all but preened.

About a quarter mile away in Jasmine Cottage, Anathema was nursing a cup of chamomile lavender tea, just as she was nursing doubts about her strange encounter with the two men. Further inspection hadn’t turned up a single bruise or scratch, and that, of course, was simply impossible. With warmed fingers, she turned the pages of the Book, hoping for any guidance the old text was willing to provide.

 

_**Two fruits from Eden lost, loft togeth’r in the Garden of bread and cake,** _

_**Thee who did strike by the lightless chariot of the S’rpent and did tend by the Dove, taketh heed!** _

_**Only seven remains until those Four shall rideth, and bringeth about the Endeth of Days.** _

 

Anathema propped her chin in one hand. The part about being struck by a chariot made sense, but as always, the prophecy only made sense in the rearview, long after it would have actually have been helpful. She drummed her fingers on the shabby tabletop, feeling the thickness of several coats of paint, many of which probably contained lead. The shorter man, Aziraphale, could certainly be compared to a dove, but the information wasn’t exactly what she’d call useful.

The reference to Armageddon was clear at the very least, and _“only seven remains”_ most likely meant a week’s time, but how did it all relate to _“two fruits from Eden”_? As far as Anathema knew, there’d only been one fruit. Was she looking for a pair of apples, then? Probably best to check. Pulling her tablet across the table, Anathema put in a Google search for “apples” and “Tadfield”. This resulted in a small, outmoded webpage advertising a local orchard: **Braeburn, Gala and Granny Smith! Seasonal availability. 85 Gloddaeth Street.**

Anathema scribbled the address into her notebook and decided to visit the location tomorrow afternoon.

Meanwhile, the Antichrist was summoning a monster with moist, rubbery skin and two black, beady eyes like bottomless pits. It broke the foamy, banana-scented surf, barely peaking, and moved towards the hapless soldier standing on the shoreline, gun at the ready. The monster pounced, throwing a great deluge of water onto pale, mint green tiles-

“Adam!” yelled an exasperated voice.

“Sorry!” said the Prince of Darkness, wincing a little. He looked at the puddle of sudsy water glistening on the bathroom floor, then at the shaggy purple mat bunched up near the toilet. Moving slowly, Adam hoisted his upper body over the rim of the bathtub and reached out to grab it, sloshing even more water onto the tile. He froze, then reached out a little more, water dripping from sodden, Biblical curls. Pinching the mat between two wrinkled fingers, he flopped it over the mess, hiding the lake of splashed water. Dog observed from his place by the door, head pillowed on his front paws.

“You didn’t see anything,” said Adam, sliding back into the frothy depths of the tub. He picked his rubber duck up again, but decided he’d grown tired of pecking Action Man to death with it and searched the tub with his toes instead, looking for the bar of soap. That was a much better game, anyway. Finding it down by the drain, Adam gleefully held it against the side of the tub.

“Watch this, Dog,” he commanded in a whisper, and he sent the soap whizzing around the inside of the tub. It wasn’t a very good try, he concluded, as the soap only made it halfway around the tub before zooming back under the bubbles. Adam was disappointed in those bubbles. They _smelled_ like bananas, and the liquid Mum had squirted into the tub had _looked_ like bananas, so why were the bubbles white instead of yellow? It just didn’t make sense. He picked the soap up and went for another lap, trying to make it all the way around the tub. Dog twitched one floppy ear, unimpressed.

“This time for sure,” said Adam confidently.

The soap rocketed around the lip of the tub, slingshot off the back, and sailed into the corner of the bathroom where it hit the door with a dull, incriminating clunk. Adam went very, very still. Hearing footsteps, he whirled around and proceeded to look very busy with his duck. Mrs. Young opened the door with the weary, bemused sort of look trademark to all Mothers of Small Children.

“Adam-” she cut herself off, gawking at the profusion of bubbles foaming over the confines of the tub. It wasn’t that they’d almost reached the faucet (she just _knew_ she shouldn’t have left the bottle in here with him) but the fact that-

“Mum, look!” Adam declared excitedly, whirling around with the biggest grin on his face. He gathered a puffy, brilliant yellow wad in both hands and showed it to her. “They’re banana-flavored!”

Five minutes later, Adam pouted as his mother nervously rinsed him off with the shower head (for some reason) and draped a towel over his head. He dried himself off, because he was big boy of eleven, thanks very much, and climbed into his pajamas while Mrs. Young shook water from the duck, set it on the windowsill to dry, and picked up the bottle of bubble bath, squinting at it with a look of distrust. She snagged Adam as he went to leave the bathroom, put the towel back over his head, and roughly squeezed out his curls – then allowed him to wriggle away and flee into the kitchen, Dog trotting at his heels.

He went to the fridge to forage, and Mrs. Young went into the living to show the bottle to Mr. Young. “Honey, do you think… do you think these are defective? They changed color in the bath. Went bright yellow!”

“Isn’t it supposed to do that?” said Mr. Young distractedly, much more interested the football match.

Mrs. Young squinted at the bottle again. “It doesn’t say anything like that on the label.”

“Bottle’s yellow,” Mr. Young pointed out, as if it explained everything.

“Yes, well… it never changed color before. What if he gets a rash?”

“ _Does_ he have a rash?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Then I’m sure it’s fine. Sounds like something they’d come up with – yellow bubbles,” said Mr. Young, trying to peer around his wife as Spain went in for another goal against France. “Oh, you bloody _wanker_! How could you miss!? It was three feet in front of you!”

Seeing that further conversation would be impossible, Mrs. Young set the bottle next to the phone. Her husband made a good point; after all, the bottle _said_ banana-scented, and it stood to reason that they’d make the bubbles yellow to match. Kids lost their mind over that kind of thing. But still… they’d been white when she’d first frothed them up under the tap, and despite the never-ending parade of scents that’d she’d purchased over the years, they’d never _bee_ n anything but white. And with the daily reports of talcum powder recalls and cancer-causing chemicals popping up in innocent things like Cheerios, she decided there was no harm in calling the company tomorrow to make sure.

For his part, Adam had forgotten all about the magic banana-colored bubbles and was concentrating on getting his glass of milk and stack of Oreos to the bedroom. Milk sloshed over the rim and spattered on the floor. Dog leapt to his rescue and proceeded to lap up the evidence.

“Good idea,” Adam whispered. He put the glass to his lips and gulped down half of it. After that, it was much easier to make it down the hall without spilling. He sat cross legged on the bed and dunked his Oreos, thinking hard on what game he’d propose for the gang tomorrow. They’d already gotten bored with pirates, and they’d pretty much worn out Aurors and Death Eaters. Maybe Hobbits and Ringwraiths? His mum had a dirty gold ring that didn’t fit her anymore. That would be perfect! Unless Pepper thought they were making fun of her.

Outside, the deep, throaty growl of an engine came rumbling down the lane. It wasn’t the putter of the milk truck, the Silent but Deadly whir of Miss Wayne's new SmartCar, and most definitely not the clanking, chugging cacophony of Mr. Beckett’s pig lorry. Adam had never heard it in town before, and yet it sounded strangely familiar to him. He set the milk aside and bounced to the window to look. Half a second later, the noise rounded the corner.

It was an _old_ car, something his grandpa would have been driving long before Adam had been born. It was also dark and sleek, and looked as though it might actually be capable of breaking the sound barrier. Adam eagerly craned up on his knees.

“Scaramouch, Scaramouch, will you do the Fandango?” he caroled aloud, repeating nonsense words he didn’t understand to a tune he’d never heard, but one that he knew like anything. Bare feet tapped a rhythm against his sheets. He thought of fog and some dark, leathery, infernally oak-mossy smell. It was a good smell, he decided.

The antique car swung around the house and out of view, and Adam knew exactly what game they’d be playing tomorrow.

Tomorrow, they’d be race-car drivers.

**Author's Note:**

> **Do you have any idea how much fun I had writing this? DO YOU?!  
> **  
>  As far as this fandom and characters are concerned, I feel like little Anges with that derpy-looking unicorn plushie:  
> "IT'S SO FLUFFY!"


End file.
